Homeless Shelter

shopping carts are being pushed away blankets are being carried away sleeping bags are in high demand tents are hard to fasten to the ground i like it better by the church the prayers of all the little ones surround my head where their little feet were at on a rug just outside the door that is where i lay a homeless today

Over The Palm Beach Bridge

Living on the Ritzy side, Rolls Royces are the choice of rideand mansions paid by family’s pride, hidden by bushes is where they hide. Crossing the water where the dolphins swim,

you see another world that looks a little grim.For shopping carts are more the norm, transporting laundry even during a storm.Then there is the drug dealers, crack houses and prostitutes too, Trying to exist day to day without a clue. Now I hear they are saying they are going to bulldoze all this, You know it’s people can’t fight with money or resist, for poverty is not really solved it still PERSISTS.We need to create a better way, to solve this problem of tomorrow and today. Since then I hear of Millionaire Reality Show, Where a Millionaire comes to the Ghetto. I talked to him, and he shared he was scared, but acting like it was more of a dare.“Well, I lived over there” I said, which went way over his head.It was almost like talking to a piece of bread. Living in the ghetto, I prayed and I cared. People are REAL and they are scared. Let’s start from a common ground, To change this Palm Beach County town. By Christina Sunrise copyright 2011

Are they going to dropp the bomb?

Are they going todropp the bomb or not, the though went through my headand just outside Walvisbayat a secret airportnuclear bombs were stackedon pallets in a rowglowing like copperwith tips looking like leadand lights were blinding up aheadand Buccaneer bomberswere ready to goand special force soldierswere patrolling the perimeterand to this dayI do not knowwhat happened thereand what decisions were madeand what role played fateand saw some pilots waiton instructionswhile the bombs were being loadedand the rain pouredfrom a overcast skyand in the distanceI heard a piperplaying a very sad songand not a single aircraft set of to fly that night.

I Wanna Be Where You Are

Can it be I stayed away too longDid I leave your mind when I was goneIts not my thing trying to get backBut this time let me tell you where Im atYou dont have to worry cause Im comingBack to where I should have always stayedAnd now Ive heard the maybe to your storyAnd its enough love for me to stayCan it be I stayed away too longDid I leave your mind when I was goneIts not my thing trying to get backBut this time let me tell you where Im atChorus:I wanna, wanna be where you areAnywhere you areI wanna, wanna be where you areEverywhere you areBridge:Please dont close the door to our futureTheres so many things we havent triedI could love you better than I used toAnd give you all the love I have insideChorus:I wanna, wanna be where you areAny, any, anywhere you areI wanna, wanna be where you areI gotta be where you are

There are times when I recall the sweet scents

There are times when I recall the sweet scentsOf our friendship in its prime youthWhat vile winds, what whispering sands, What foul thoughts poisoned the truthConstancy thrives only in heavenly realms of above Life is painful and thorny, and it wares us into vainAnd to strive to be worth of the one we loveDoes work like havoc madness in the brain

But never either of us found the other againTo free the hollow heart from gnawing painStubbornly we stood aloof and far, the scars remainingThe soul wounded and ailingWith no end to suffering and paintingIn the reign of wrath, doubts and never reachingThere will never be souls bridgingLike lofty cliffs which had been set asunderThe cold dreary sea now flows betweenAnd neither heat, nor frost, nor thunderShall move this ocean away from withinOh Dear me, Oh Dare me to weanThe marks of her who once had been

Are You Willing To Pay The Price?

there are two housestwo distant islands

on one island there are only two colorsblack and whitenothing in between no shades, no huesno compromises ofblendingit is a hard, disciplined structurewhere rocks are rockssame shapes, same weight, same burdens

on the other hand the other island isfull of colors, it is like law being let gointo freedomcall it a rainbow where pots of gold are foundwhere seemingly everything goes on and onbut with responsibilitythe trees grow leaves of differentcolors and striations and shapes it is surprisingit happensthe rocks there movelike living heads of mushroomsthe rivers sometimes take their restfreezing coldand hard and then turning into mobile water againsinging

there is no bridge between this twono connectionnothing familiar about eachbut i live in bothi know the secret pathand if you want to know itlet me ask: are you willing to pay the price?

Heroes Are Hard To Find

Written by christine mcvie.Girls you knowWhen youre in the mood(in the mood)You may meet a manCant do anything good(nothing good)But youve got to pity himAnd ty to understand(understand)That a hero, a hero is so hard to findWhen he takes youFor his love(for his love)And he tries to tell youThat there isnt any other(dont believe him)Oh, he may kiss youAnd tell you hell miss you(such a shame)But dont forget, a hero is so hard to findWhen he says helloDont forget theyre all the same(you know theyre all the same)You may end up sitting all aloneAnd with yourself to blameOh, dont you let himSo when he tells youYouve got diamonds in your eyes(hes just lying)Dont get carried awayCause you know hes selling you lies(hes just lying)So when you get the feelingThe man youve gots no goodHes no goodWell just remember, a hero is so hard to findWell just remember, a hero is so hard to findHeroes, heroes are hard to findHeroes, heroes are hard to findHeroes, heroes are hard to findHeroes, heroes are hard to find...

Who Are They Who Point to The Liberals?

Who are they who point to The Liberals? Those of Conservative values? Those who send others, To end their conflicts? Those who sit with their opinions...And sip on dry martinis.And discuss their vacation visits.

Those of 'right winged' policies...Whose sons and daughters, Hide behind college walls...With no military, Or civic duties to complete!

Those who feed their greed, And learn skills of deception.To earn positions on Wall Street! With their cheating test scores, That have granted them B.A., M.A....And Doctorate degrees.

Who are they who point to The Liberals? Those of Conservative values? Those that have turned their quality of life...Into a cesspool of decadence, Created to instill fear and strife.To all now witnessing their economic blight!

Who are they who point to The Liberals? Those who wish to do things right.Those who are concern about all human life.Those who now must clean up the mess.Left by separatists conservatives! Thick with mindsets of incompetence.And walking on destructive paths!

Who are they who point to The Liberals?

'Those who feel they should be invited...To kneel before the Queen of England, And be knighted! '

A Little Cottage

A little cottage nestled in the hills, its roof is thatched and it windows carry Georgian squares. In its garden pretty flowers grow; while in the fields, seeds of corn are sown. Snug within its stonewalls lives a family, husband, wife and their two sons. Sadness filled the cottage one daywhen the sons were called to war. Candles were lit; prayers were said for their safe return. Years rolled by, paintwork peeled, but the little cottage was still a home with its fire warm. Day after day, year after year they waited for their sons return. Then came what they dreaded most, letters laced with black to say that their sons had fallen in fields far awayand would not be coming back. A wreath of black hangs on the doorfor their soldier boys who will come home no more. Sorrow again gripped the walls. As years followed, the little cottage fell into disrepair. Within this once happy home only sadness rang. The husband and wife grew old in their years, but always held the memory of two young lost lives. Slowly they too faded away. Now the little cottage stands silent for all to see. Falling down from lack of repair, but always holding memories of happiness once there.

The Iron Wedding Rings

In these days of peace and money, free to all the Commonweal, There are ancient dames in Buckland wearing wedding rings of steel; Wedding rings of steel and iron, worn on wrinkled hands and old, And the wearers would not give them, not for youth nor wealth untold.

In the days of black oppression, when the best abandoned hope, And all Buckland crouched in terror of the prison and the rope, Many fair young wives in Buckland prayed beside their lonely beds For the absent ones who knew not where to lay their outlawed heads.

But a whisper went through Buckland, to the rebels only known, That the man across the border had a chance to hold his own. There were men that came in darkness, quiet, grim and travel-worn, And, by twos, and threes, the young men stole away to join Kinghorn.

Slipping powder-horns and muskets from beneath the floors and thatch, There were boys who kissed their mothers ere they softly dropped the latch; There were hunters' wives in backwoods who sat strangely still and white Till the dawn, because their men-folk went a-hunting in the night.

But the rebels needed money, and so, through the Buckland hills, Came again, by night, the gloomy men of monosyllables; And the ladies gave their jewels to be smuggled out and sold, And the homely wives of Buckland gave their wedding rings of gold.

And a Buckland smith in secret, and in danger, in his shed Made them rings of baser metals (from the best he had, to lead), To be gilt and worn to market, or to meetings where they.prayed, Lest the spies should get an inkling, and the husbands be betrayed.

Then a silence fell on Buckland; there was peace throughout the land, And a loyalty that puzzled all the captains in command; There was too much Law and Order for the men who weren't blind, And the greatest of the king's men wasn't easy in his mind.

They were hunting rebels, certes, and the troops were understood To be searching for a stronghold like a needle in a wood; But whene'er the king was prayed for in the meeting-houses, then It was strange with how much unction ancient sinners cried "Ah-men!"

Till at last, when all was quiet, through the gloomy Buckland hills Once again there came those furtive men of monosyllables; And their message was – "Take warning what the morrow may reveal, Death and Freedom may be married with a wedding ring of steel."

In the morning, from the marshes, rose the night-mist, cold and damp, From the shipping in the harbour and the sleeping royal camp; From the lanes and from the by-streets and the high streets of the town, And above the hills of Buckland, where the rebel guns looked down.

And the first one sent a message to the camp to fight or yield, And the wintry sun looked redly on a bloody battlefield; Till the man from 'cross the border marched through Buckland once again, With a charter for the people and ten thousand fighting men.

There are ancient dames in Buckland with old secrets to reveal, Wearing wedding rings of iron, wearing wedding rings of steel; And their tears drop on the metal when their thoughts are far awayIn the past where their young husbands died on Buckland field that day.

The Golden Legend: II. A Farm In The Odenwald

_Prince Henry (reading)._ One morning, all alone,Out of his convent of gray stone,Into the forest older, darker, grayer,His lips moving as if in prayer,His head sunken upon his breastAs in a dream of rest,Walked the Monk Felix. All aboutThe broad, sweet sunshine lay without,Filling the summer air;And within the woodlands as he trod,The twilight was like the Truce of GodWith worldly woe and care;Under him lay the golden moss;And above him the boughs of hemlock-treeWaved, and made the sign of the cross,And whispered their Benedicites;And from the groundRose an odor sweet and fragrantOf the wild flowers and the vagrantVines that wandered,Seeking the sunshine, round and round.These he heeded not, but ponderedOn the volume in his hand,A volume of Saint Augustine;Wherein he read of the unseenSplendors of God's great townIn the unknown land,And, with his eyes cast downIn humility, he said:'I believe, O God,What herein I have read,But alas! I do not understand!'

And lo! he heardThe sudden singing of a bird,A snow-white bird, that from a cloudDropped down,And among the branches brownSat singingSo sweet, and clear, and loud,It seemed a thousand harp strings ringing.And the Monk Felix closed his book,And long, long,With rapturous look,He listened to the song,And hardly breathed or stirred,Until he saw, as in a vision,The land Elysian,And in the heavenly city heardAngelic feetFall on the golden flagging of the street.And he would fainHave caught the wondrous bird,But strove in vain;For it flew away, away,Far over hill and dell,And instead of its sweet singingHe heard the convent bellSuddenly in the silence ringingFor the service of noonday.And he retracedHis pathway homeward sadly and in haste.

In the convent there was a change!He looked for each well known face,But the faces were new and strange;New figures sat in the oaken stalls,New voices chaunted in the choir,Yet the place was the same place,The same dusky wallsOf cold, gray stone,The same cloisters and belfry and spire.

A stranger and aloneAmong that brotherhoodThe Monk Felix stood'Forty years,' said a Friar.'Have I been PriorOf this convent in the wood,But for that spaceNever have I beheld thy face!'

The heart of the Monk Felix fell:And he answered with submissive tone,'This morning, after the hour of Prime,I left my cell,And wandered forth alone,Listening all the timeTo the melodious singingOf a beautiful white bird,Until I heardThe bells of the convent ringingNoon from their noisy towers,It was as if I dreamed;For what to me had seemedMoments only, had been hours!'

'Years!' said a voice close by.It was an aged monk who spoke,From a bench of oakFastened against the wall;--He was the oldest monk of all.For a whole centuryHad he been there,Serving God in prayer,The meekest and humblest of his creatures.He remembered well the featuresOf Felix, and he said,Speaking distinct and slow:'One hundred years ago,When I was a novice in this place,There was here a monk, full of God's grace,Who bore the nameOf Felix, and this man must be the same.'

And straightwayThey brought forth to the light of dayA volume old and brown,A huge tome, boundWith brass and wild-boar's hide,Therein were written downThe names of all who had diedIn the convent, since it was edified.And there they found,Just as the old monk said,That on a certain day and date,One hundred years before,Had gone forth from the convent gateThe Monk Felix, and never moreHad entered that sacred door.He had been counted among the dead!And they knew, at last,That, such had been the powerOf that celestial and immortal song,A hundred years had passed,And had not seemed so longAs a single hour!

(ELSIE _comes in with flowers._)

_Elsie._ Here are flowers for you,But they are not all for you.Some of them are for the VirginAnd for Saint Cecilia.

_Prince Henry._ Themselves will fade,But not their memory,And memory has the powerTo re-create them from the dust.They remind me, too,Of martyred Dorothea,Who from celestial gardens sentFlowers as her witnessesTo him who scoffed and doubted.

_Elsie._ Do you know the storyOf Christ and the Sultan's daughter?That is the prettiest legend of them all.

_Prince Henry._ Then tell it to me.But first come hither.Lay the flowers down beside me.And put both thy hands in mine.Now tell me the story.

_Elsie._ Early in the morningThe Sultan's daughterWalked in her father's garden,Gathering the bright flowers,All full of dew.

_Elsie._ And as she gathered them,She wondered more and moreWho was the Master of the Flowers,And made them growOut of the cold, dark earth.'In my heart,' she said,'I love him; and for himWould leave my father's palace,To labor in his garden.'

_Elsie._ And at midnight,As she lay upon her bed,She heard a voiceCall to her from the garden,And, looking forth from her window,She saw a beautiful youthStanding among the flowers.It was the Lord Jesus;And she went down to him,And opened the door for him;And he said to her, 'O maiden!Thou hast thought of me with love,And for thy sakeOut of my Father's kingdomHave I come hither:I am the Master of the Flowers.My garden is in Paradise,And if thou wilt go with me,Thy bridal garlandShall be of bright red flowers.'And then he took from his fingerA golden ring,And asked the Sultan's daughterIf she would be his bride.And when she answered him with love,His wounds began to bleed,And she said to him,'O Love! how red thy heart is,And thy hands are full of roses,''For thy sake,' answered he,'For thy sake is my heart so red,For thee I bring these roses.I gathered them at the crossWhereon I died for thee!Come, for my Father calls.Thou art my elected bride!'And the Sultan's daughterFollowed him to his Father's garden.

_Prince Henry._ Wouldst thou have done so, Elsie?

_Elsie._ Yes, very gladly.

_Prince Henry._ Then the Celestial BridegroomWill come for thee also.Upon thy forehead he will place,Not his crown of thorns,But a crown of roses.In thy bridal chamber,Like Saint Cecilia,Thou shall hear sweet music,And breathe the fragranceOf flowers immortal!Go now and place these flowersBefore her picture.

* * * * *

A ROOM IN THE FARM-HOUSE.

* * * * *

_Twilight._ URSULA _spinning._ GOTTLIEB _asleep in hischair._

_Ursula._ Darker and darker! Hardly a glimmerOf light comes in at the window-pane;Or is it my eyes are growing dimmer?I cannot disentangle this skein,Nor wind it rightly upon the reel.Elsie!

_Gottlieb (starting)_. The stopping of thy wheelHas wakened me out of a pleasant dream.I thought I was sitting beside a stream,And heard the grinding of a mill,When suddenly the wheels stood still,And a voice cried 'Elsie' in my ear!It startled me, it seemed so near.

_Ursula._ I was calling her: I want a light.I cannot see to spin my flax.Bring the lamp, Elsie. Dost thou hear?

_Elsie (within)._ In a moment!

_Gottlieb._ Where are Bertha and Max?

_Ursula._ They are sitting with Elsie at the door.She is telling them stories of the wood,And the Wolf, and Little Red Ridinghood.

_Gottlieb_. And where is the Prince?

_Ursula_. In his room overhead;I heard him walking across the floor,As he always does, with a heavy tread.

(ELSIE _comes in with a lamp_. MAX _and_ BERTHA _follow her;and they all sing the Evening Song on the lighting of the lamps_.)

EVENING SONG.

O gladsome lightOf the Father Immortal,And of the celestialSacred and blessedJesus, our Saviour!

Father omnipotent!Son, the Life-giver!Spirit, the Comforter!Worthy at all timesOf worship and wonder!

_Prince Henry (at the door)_. Amen!

_Ursula_. Who was it said Amen?

_Elsie_. It was the Prince: he stood at the door,And listened a moment, as we chauntedThe evening song. He is gone again.I have often seen him there before.

_Ursula_. Poor Prince!

_Gottlieb_. I thought the house was haunted!Poor Prince, alas! and yet as mildAnd patient as the gentlest child!

_Max._ I love him because he is so good,And makes me such fine bows and arrows,To shoot at the robins and the sparrows,And the red squirrels in the wood!

_Bertha._ I love him, too!

_Gottlieb._ Ah, yes! we allLove him, from the bottom of our hearts;He gave us the farm, the house, and the grange,He gave us the horses and the carts,And the great oxen in the stall,The vineyard, and the forest range!We have nothing to give him but our love!

_Bertha._ Did he give us the beautiful stork aboveOn the chimney-top, with its large, round nest?

_Gottlieb._ No, not the stork; by God in heaven,As a blessing, the dear, white stork was given;But the Prince has given us all the rest.God bless him, and make him well again.

_Elsie._ Would I could do something for his sake,Something to cure his sorrow and pain!

_Gottlieb._ That no one can; neither thou nor I,Nor any one else.

_Elsie._ And must he die?

_Ursula._ Yes; if the dear God does not takePity upon him, in his distress,And work a miracle!

_Gottlieb._ Or unlessSome maiden, of her own accord,Offers her life for that of her lord,And is willing to die in his stead.

_Max._ O father! this morning,Down by the mill, in the ravine,Hans killed a wolf, the very sameThat in the night to the sheepfold came,And ate up my lamb, that was left outside.

_Gottlieb._ I am glad he is dead. It will be a warningTo the wolves in the forest, far and wide.

_Max._ And I am going to have his hide!

_Bertha._ I wonder if this is the wolf that ateLittle Red Ridinghood!

_Ursula._ O, no!That wolf was killed a long while ago.Come, children, it is growing late.

_Max._ Ah, how I wish I were a man,As stout as Hans is, and as strong!I would do nothing else, the whole day long,But just kill wolves.

_Gottlieb._ Then go to bed,And grow as fast as a little boy can.Bertha is half asleep already.See how she nods her heavy head,And her sleepy feet are so unsteadyShe will hardly be able to creep upstairs.

_Ursula._ Good-night, my children. Here's the light.And do not forget to say your prayersBefore you sleep.

_Gottlieb._ Good-night!

_Max and Bertha._ Good-night!

(_They go out with_ ELSIE.)

_Ursula, (spinning)._ She is a strange and wayward child,That Elsie of ours. She looks so old,And thoughts and fancies weird and wildSeem of late to have taken holdOf her heart, that was once so docile and mild!

_Gottlieb._ She is like all girls.

_Ursula._ Ah no, forsooth!Unlike all I have ever seen.For she has visions and strange dreams,And in all her words and ways, she seemsMuch older than she is in truth.Who would think her but fourteen?And there has been of late such a change!My heart is heavy with fear and doubtThat she may not live till the year is out.She is so strange,--so strange,--so strange!

_Gottlieb._ I am not troubled with any such fear!She will live and thrive for many a year.

IntercedingWith these bleedingWounds upon thy hands and side,For all who have lived and erredThou hast suffered, thou hast died,Scourged, and mocked, and crucified,And in the grave hast thou been buried!

If my feeble prayer can reach thee,O my Saviour, I beseech thee,Even as thou hast died for me,More sincerelyLet me follow where thou leadest,Let me, bleeding as thou bleedest,Die, if dying I may giveLife to one who asks to live,And more nearly,Dying thus, resemble thee!

* * * * *

THE CHAMBER OF GOTTLIEB AND URSULA.

* * * * *

_Midnight._ ELSIE _standing by their bedside, weeping._

_Gottlieb._ The wind is roaring; the rushing rainIs loud upon roof and window-pane,As if the Wild Huntsman of Rodenstein,Boding evil to me and mine,Were abroad to-night with his ghostly train!In the brief lulls of the tempest wild,The dogs howl in the yard; and hark!Some one is sobbing in the dark,Here in the chamber!

_Gottlieb._ What wouldst thou? In the Power DivineHis healing lies, not in our own;It is in the hand of God alone.

_Elsie._ Nay, he has put it into mine,And into my heart!

_Gottlieb._ Thy words are wild!

_Ursula._ What dost thou mean? my child! my child!

_Elsie._ That for our dear Prince Henry's sakeI will myself the offering make,And give my life to purchase his.

_Ursula_ Am I still dreaming, or awake?Thou speakest carelessly of death,And yet thou knowest not what it is.

_Elsie._ 'T is the cessation of our breath.Silent and motionless we lie;And no one knoweth more than this.I saw our little Gertrude die,She left off breathing, and no moreI smoothed the pillow beneath her head.She was more beautiful than before.Like violets faded were her eyes;By this we knew that she was dead.Through the open window looked the skiesInto the chamber where she lay,And the wind was like the sound of wings,As if angels came to bear her away.Ah! when I saw and felt these things,I found it difficult to stay;I longed to die, as she had died,And go forth with her, side by side.The Saints are dead, the Martyrs dead,And Mary, and our Lord, and IWould follow in humilityThe way by them illumined!

_Ursula._ My child! my child! thou must not die!

_Elsie_ Why should I live? Do I not knowThe life of woman is full of woe?Toiling on and on and on,With breaking heart, and tearful eyes,And silent lips, and in the soulThe secret longings that arise,Which this world never satisfies!Some more, some less, but of the wholeNot one quite happy, no, not one!

_Ursula._ Alas! that I should live to seeThy death, beloved, and to standAbove thy grave! Ah, woe the day!

_Elsie._ Thou wilt not see it. I shall lieBeneath the flowers of another land,For at Salerno, far awayOver the mountains, over the sea,It is appointed me to die!And it will seem no more to theeThan if at the village on market-dayI should a little longer stayThan I am used.

_Elsie_ Christ died for me, and shall not IBe willing for my Prince to die?You both are silent; you cannot speak.This said I, at our Saviour's feast,After confession, to the priest,And even he made no reply.Does he not warn us all to seekThe happier, better land on high,Where flowers immortal never wither,And could he forbid me to go thither?

_Gottlieb._ In God's own time, my heart's delight!When he shall call thee, not before!

_Elsie._ I heard him call. When Christ ascendedTriumphantly, from star to star,He left the gates of heaven ajar.I had a vision in the night,And saw him standing at the doorOf his Father's mansion, vast and splendid,And beckoning to me from afar.I cannot stay!

_Gottlieb._ She speaks almostAs if it were the Holy GhostSpake through her lips, and in her stead!What if this were of God?

_Ursula._ Ah, thenGainsay it dare we not.

_Gottlieb._ Amen!Elsie! the words that thou hast saidAre strange and new for us to hear,And fill our hearts with doubt and fear.Whether it be a dark temptationOf the Evil One, or God's inspiration,We in our blindness cannot say.We must think upon it, and pray;For evil and good in both resembles.If it be of God, his will be done!May he guard us from the Evil One!How hot thy hand is! how it trembles!Go to thy bed, and try to sleep.

_Ursula._ Kiss me. Good-night; and do not weep!

(ELSIE _goes out._)

Ah, what an awful thing is this!I almost shuddered at her kiss.As if a ghost had touched my cheek,I am so childish and so weak!As soon as I see the earliest grayOf morning glimmer in the east,I will go over to the priest,And hear what the good man has to say!

(_The woman goes out. The Priest comes forth, andwalks slowly up and down the church_.)

O blessed Lord! how much I needThy light to guide me on my way!So many hands, that, without heed,Still touch thy wounds, and make them bleed!So many feet, that, day by day,Still wander from thy fold astray!Unless thou fill me with thy light,I cannot lead thy flock aright;Nor, without thy support, can bearThe burden of so great a care,But am myself a castaway!

(_A pause_.)

The day is drawing to its close;And what good deeds, since first it rose,Have I presented, Lord, to thee,As offerings of my ministry?What wrong repressed, what right maintainedWhat struggle passed, what victory gained,What good attempted and attained?Feeble, at best, is my endeavor!I see, but cannot reach, the heightThat lies forever in the light,And yet forever and forever,When seeming just within my grasp,I feel my feeble hands unclasp,And sink discouraged into night!For thine own purpose, thou hast sentThe strife and the discouragement!

(_A pause_.)

Why stayest thou, Prince of Hoheneck?Why keep me pacing to and froAmid these aisles of sacred gloom,Counting my footsteps as I go,And marking with each step a tomb?Why should the world for thee make room,And wait thy leisure and thy beck?Thou comest in the hope to hearSome word of comfort and of cheer.What can I say? I cannot giveThe counsel to do this and live;But rather, firmly to denyThe tempter, though his power is strong,And, inaccessible to wrong,Still like a martyr live and die!

(_A pause_.)

The evening air grows dusk and brown;I must go forth into the town,To visit beds of pain and death,Of restless limbs, and quivering breath,And sorrowing hearts, and patient eyesThat see, through tears, the sun go down,But never more shall see it rise.The poor in body and estate,The sick and the disconsolate.Must not on man's convenience wait.

This is the Black Pater-noster.God was my foster,He fostered meUnder the book of the Palm-tree!St. Michael was my dame.He was born at Bethlehem,He was made of flesh and blood.God send me my right food,My right food, and shelter too,That I may to yon kirk go,To read upon yon sweet bookWhich the mighty God of heaven shook.Open, open, hell's gates!Shut, shut, heaven's gates!All the devils in the airThe stronger be, that hear the Black Prayer!

(_Looking round the church_.)

What a darksome and dismal place!I wonder that any man has the faceTo call such a hole the House of the Lord,And the Gate of Heaven,--yet such is the word.Ceiling, and walls, and windows old,Covered with cobwebs, blackened with mould;Dust on the pulpit, dust on the stairs,Dust on the benches, and stalls, and chairs!The pulpit, from which such ponderous sermonsHave fallen down on the brains of the Germans,With about as much real edificationAs if a great Bible, bound in lead,Had fallen, and struck them on the head;And I ought to remember that sensation!Here stands the holy water stoup!Holy-water it may be to many,But to me, the veriest Liquor Gehennae!It smells like a filthy fast day soup!Near it stands the box for the poor;With its iron padlock, safe and sure,I and the priest of the parish knowWhither all these charities go;Therefore, to keep up the institution,I will add my little contribution!

(_He puts in money._)

Underneath this mouldering tomb,With statue of stone, and scutcheon of brass,Slumbers a great lord of the village.All his life was riot and pillage,But at length, to escape the threatened doomOf the everlasting, penal fire,He died in the dress of a mendicant friar,And bartered his wealth for a daily mass.But all that afterward came to pass,And whether he finds it dull or pleasant,Is kept a secret for the present,At his own particular desire.

And here, in a corner of the wall,Shadowy, silent, apart from all,With its awful portal open wide,And its latticed windows on either side,And its step well worn by the bended kneesOf one or two pious centuries,Stands the village confessional!Within it, as an honored guest,I will sit me down awhile and rest!

(_Seats himself in the confessional_.)

Here sits the priest, and faint and low,Like the sighing of an evening breeze,Comes through these painted latticesThe ceaseless sound of human woe,Here, while her bosom aches and throbsWith deep and agonizing sobs,That half are passion, half contrition,The luckless daughter of perditionSlowly confesses her secret shame!The time, the place, the lover's name!Here the grim murderer, with a groan,From his bruised conscience rolls the stone,Thinking that thus he can atoneFor ravages of sword and flame!Indeed, I marvel, and marvel greatly,How a priest can sit here so sedately,Reading, the whole year out and in,Naught but the catalogue of sin,And still keep any faith whateverIn human virtue! Never! never!

I cannot repeat a thousandth partOf the horrors and crimes and sins and woesThat arise, when with palpitating throesThe graveyard in the human heartGives up its dead, at the voice of the priest,As if he were an archangel, at least.It makes a peculiar atmosphere,This odor of earthly passions and crimes,Such as I like to breathe, at times,And such as often brings me hereIn the hottest and most pestilential season.To-day, I come for another reason;To foster and ripen an evil thoughtIn a heart that is almost to madness wrought,And to make a murderer out of a prince,A sleight of hand I learned long since!He comes In the twilight he will not seethe difference between his priest and me!In the same net was the mother caught!

_Lucifer_. The benediction shall be saidAfter confession, not before!'T is a God speed to the parting guest,Who stands already at the door,Sandalled with holiness, and dressedIn garments pure from earthly stain.Meanwhile, hast thou searched well thy breast?Does the same madness fill thy brain?Or have thy passion and unrestVanished forever from thy mind?

_Prince Henry_. By the same madness still made blind,By the same passion still possessed,I come again to the house of prayer,A man afflicted and distressed!As in a cloudy atmosphere,Through unseen sluices of the air,A sudden and impetuous windStrikes the great forest white with fear,And every branch, and bough, and sprayPoints all its quivering leaves one way,And meadows of grass, and fields of grain,And the clouds above, and the slanting rain,And smoke from chimneys of the town,Yield themselves to it, and bow down,So does this dreadful purpose pressOnward, with irresistible stress,And all my thoughts and faculties,Struck level by the strength of this,From their true inclination turn,And all stream forward to Salem!

_Lucifer_. Alas! we are but eddies of dust,Uplifted by the blast, and whirledAlong the highway of the worldA moment only, then to fallBack to a common level all,At the subsiding of the gust!

_Prince Henry_. O holy Father! pardon in meThe oscillation of a mindUnsteadfast, and that cannot findIts centre of rest and harmony!For evermore before mine eyesThis ghastly phantom flits and flies,And as a madman through a crowd,With frantic gestures and wild cries,It hurries onward, and aloudRepeats its awful prophecies!Weakness is wretchedness! To be strongIs to be happy! I am weak,And cannot find the good I seek,Because I feel and fear the wrong!

_Lucifer_. Be not alarmed! The Church is kind--And in her mercy and her meeknessShe meets half-way her children's weakness,Writes their transgressions in the dust!Though in the Decalogue we findThe mandate written, 'Thou shalt not kill!'Yet there are cases when we must.In war, for instance, or from scatheTo guard and keep the one true Faith!We must look at the Decalogue in the lightOf an ancient statute, that was meantFor a mild and general application,To be understood with the reservation,That, in certain instances, the RightMust yield to the Expedient!Thou art a Prince. If thou shouldst die,What hearts and hopes would prostrate he!What noble deeds, what fair renown,Into the grave with thee go down!What acts of valor and courtesyRemain undone, and die with thee!Thou art the last of all thy race!With thee a noble name expires,And vanishes from the earth's faceThe glorious memory of thy sires!She is a peasant. In her veinsFlows common and plebeian blood;It is such as daily and hourly stainsThe dust and the turf of battle plains,By vassals shed, in a crimson flood,Without reserve, and without reward,At the slightest summons of their lord!But thine is precious, the fore-appointedBlood of kings, of God's anointed!Moreover, what has the world in storeFor one like her, but tears and toil?Daughter of sorrow, serf of the soil,A peasant's child and a peasant's wife,And her soul within her sick and soreWith the roughness and barrenness of life!I marvel not at the heart's recoilFrom a fate like this, in one so tender,Nor at its eagerness to surrenderAll the wretchedness, want, and woeThat await it in this world below,For the unutterable splendorOf the world of rest beyond the skies.So the Church sanctions the sacrifice:Therefore inhale this healing balm,And breathe this fresh life into thine;Accept the comfort and the calmShe offers, as a gift divine,Let her fall down and anoint thy feetWith the ointment costly and most sweetOf her young blood, and thou shall live.

_Prince Henry._ And will the righteous Heaven forgive?No action, whether foul or fair,Is ever done, but it leaves somewhereA record, written by fingers ghostly,As a blessing or a curse, and mostlyIn the greater weakness or greater strengthOf the acts which follow it, till at lengthThe wrongs of ages are redressed,And the justice of God made manifest!

_Lucifer_ In ancient records it is statedThat, whenever an evil deed is done,Another devil is createdTo scourge and torment the offending one!But evil is only good perverted,And Lucifer, the Bearer of Light,But an angel fallen and deserted,Thrust from his Father's house with a curseInto the black and endless night.

_Prince Henry._ If justice rules the universe,From the good actions of good menAngels of light should be begotten,And thus the balance restored again.

_Lucifer._ Yes; if the world were not so rotten,And so given over to the Devil!

_Prince Henry._ But this deed, is it good or evil?Have I thine absolution freeTo do it, and without restriction?

_Lucifer._ Ay; and from whatsoever sinLieth around it and within,From all crimes in which it may involve thee,I now release thee and absolve thee!

_The Angel_ (_with the aeolian harp_). Take heed! take heed!Noble art thou in thy birth,By the good and the great of earthHast thou been taught!Be noble in every thoughtAnd in every deed!Let not the illusion of thy sensesBetray thee to deadly offences.Be strong! be good! be pure!The right only shall endure,All things else are but false pretences!I entreat thee, I implore,Listen no moreTo the suggestions of an evil spirit,That even now is there,Making the foul seem fair,And selfishness itself a virtue and a merit!

* * * * *

A ROOM IN THE FARM-HOUSE.

* * * * *

_Gottlieb_. It is decided! For many days,And nights as many, we have hadA nameless terror in our breast,Making us timid, and afraidOf God, and his mysterious ways!We have been sorrowful and sad;Much have we suffered, much have prayedThat he would lead us as is best,And show us what his will required.It is decided; and we giveOur child, O Prince, that you may live!

_Ursula_. It is of God. He has inspiredThis purpose in her; and through pain,Out of a world of sin and woe,He takes her to himself again.The mother's heart resists no longer;With the Angel of the Lord in vainIt wrestled, for he was the stronger.

_Gottlieb_. As Abraham offered long agoHis son unto the Lord, and evenThe Everlasting Father in heavenGave his, as a lamb unto the slaughter,So do I offer up my daughter!

(URSULA _hides her face_.)

_Elsie_. My life is little,Only a cup of water,But pure and limpid.Take it, O my Prince!Let it refresh you,Let it restore you.It is given willingly,It is given freely;May God bless the gift!

_Prince Henry._ And the giver!

_Gottlieb._ Amen!

_Prince Henry._ I accept it!

_Gottlieb._ Where are the children?

_Ursula._ They are already asleep.

_Gottlieb._ What if they were dead?

* * * * *

IN THE GARDEN.

* * * * *

_Elsie._ I have one thing to ask of you.

_Prince Henry._ What is it?It is already granted.

_Elsie._ Promise me,When we are gone from here, and on our wayAre journeying to Salerno, you will not,By word or deed, endeavor to dissuade meAnd turn me from my purpose, but rememberThat as a pilgrim to the Holy CityWalks unmolested, and with thoughts of pardonOccupied wholly, so would I approachThe gates of Heaven, in this great jubilee,With my petition, putting off from meAll thoughts of earth, as shoes from off my feet.Promise me this.

_Prince Henry._ Thy words fall from thy lipsLike roses from the lips of Angelo: and angelsMight stoop to pick them up!

_Elsie._ Will you not promise?

_Prince Henry._ If ever we depart upon this journey,So long to one or both of us, I promise.

_Elsie._ Shall we not go, then? Have you lifted meInto the air, only to hurl me backWounded upon the ground? and offered meThe waters of eternal life, to bid meDrink the polluted puddles of this world?

_Prince Henry._ O Elsie! what a lesson thou dost teach me!The life which is, and that which is to come,Suspended hang in such nice equipoiseA breath disturbs the balance; and that scaleIn which we throw our hearts preponderates,And the other, like an empty one, flies up,And is accounted vanity and air!To me the thought of death is terrible,Having such hold on life. To thee it is notSo much even as the lifting of a latch;Only a step into the open airOut of a tent already luminousWith light that shines through its transparent walls!O pure in heart! from thy sweet dust shall growLilies, upon whose petals will be written'Ave Maria' in characters of gold!

The Child Of The Islands - Summer

I.

FOR Summer followeth with its store of joy; That, too, can bring thee only new delight; Its sultry hours can work thee no annoy, Veiled from thy head shall be its glowing might. Sweet fruits shall tempt thy thirsty appetite; Thy languid limbs on cushioned down shall sink; Or rest on fern-grown tufts, by streamlets bright, Where the large-throated deer come down to drink, And cluster gently round the cool refreshing brink. II.

There, as the flakèd light, with changeful ray (From where the unseen glory hotly glows) Through the green branches maketh pleasant way, And on the turf a chequered radiance throws, Thou'lt lean, and watch those kingly-antlered brows-- The lustrous beauty of their glances shy, As following still the pace their leader goes, (Who seems afraid to halt--ashamed to fly,) Rapid, yet stately too, the lovely herd troop by. III.

This is the time of shadow and of flowers, When roads gleam white for many a winding mile; When gentle breezes fan the lazy hours, And balmy rest o'erpays the time of toil; When purple hues and shifting beams beguile The tedious sameness of the heath-grown moor; When the old grandsire sees with placid smile The sunburnt children frolic round his door, And trellised roses deck the cottage of the poor. IV.

The time of pleasant evenings! when the moon Riseth companioned by a single star, And rivals e'en the brilliant summer noon In the clear radiance which she pours afar; No stormy winds her hour of peace to mar, Or stir the fleecy clouds which melt awayBeneath the wheels of her illumined car; While many a river trembles in her ray, And silver gleam the sands round many an ocean bay! V.

Oh, then the heart lies hushed, afraid to beat, In the deep absence of all other sound; And home is sought with loth and lingering feet, As though that shining tract of fairy ground, Once left and lost, might never more be found! And happy seems the life that gipsies lead, Who make their rest where mossy banks abound, In nooks where unplucked wild-flowers shed their seed; A canvass-spreading tent the only roof they need! VI.

Wild Nomades of our civilised calm land! Whose Eastern origin is still betrayed By the swart beauty of the slender hand,-- Eyes flashing forth from over-arching shade,-- And supple limbs, for active movement made; How oft, beguiled by you, the maiden looks For love her fancy ne'er before pourtrayed, And, slighting village swains and shepherd-crooks, Dreams of proud youths, dark spells, and wondrous magic books! VII.

Lo! in the confines of a dungeon cell, (Sore weary of its silence and its gloom!) One of this race: who yet deserveth well The close imprisonment which is her doom: Lawless she was, ere infancy's first bloom Left the round outline of her sunny cheek; Vagrant, and prowling Thief;--no chance, no room To bring that wild heart to obedience meek; Therefore th' avenging law its punishment must wreak. VIII.

She lies, crouched up upon her pallet bed, Her slight limbs starting in unquiet sleep; And oft she turns her feverish, restless head, Moans, frets, and murmurs, or begins to weep: Anon, a calmer hour of slumber deep Sinks on her lids; some happier thought hath come; Some jubilee unknown she thinks to keep, With liberated steps, that wander home Once more with gipsy tribes a gipsy life to roam. IX.

But no, her pale lips quiver as they moan: What whisper they? A name, and nothing more: But with such passionate tenderness of tone, As shews how much those lips that name adore. She dreams of one who shall her loss deplore With the unbridled anguish of despair! Whose forest-wanderings by her side are o'er, But to whose heart one braid of her black hair Were worth the world's best throne, and all its treasures rare. X.

The shadow of his eyes is on her soul-- His passionate eyes, that held her in such love! Which love she answered, scorning all control Of reasoning thoughts, which tranquil bosoms move. No lengthened courtship it was his to prove, (Gleaning capricious smiles by fits and starts) Nor feared her simple faith lest he should rove: Rapid and subtle as the flame that darts To meet its fellow flame, shot passion through their hearts. XI.

And though no holy priest that union blessed, By gipsy laws and customs made his bride; The love her looks avowed, in words confessed, She shared his tent, she wandered by his side, His glance her morning star, his will her guide. Animal beauty and intelligence Were her sole gifts,--his heart they satisfied,-- Himself could claim no higher, better sense, So loved her with a love, wild, passionate, intense! XII.

And oft, where flowers lay spangled round about, And to the dying twilight incense shed, They sat to watch heaven's glittering stars come out, Her cheek down-leaning on his cherished head-- That head upon her heart's soft pillow laid In fulness of content; and such deep spell Of loving silence, that the word first said With startling sweetness on their senses fell, Like silver coins dropped down a many-fathomed well. XIII.

Look! her brows darken with a sudden frown-- She dreams of Rescue by his angry aid-- She dreams he strikes the Law's vile minions down, And bears her swiftly to the wild-wood shade! There, where their bower of bliss at first was made, Safe in his sheltering arms once more she sleeps: Ah, happy dream! She wakes; amazed, afraid, Like a young panther from her couch she leaps, Gazes bewildered round, then madly shrieks and weeps! XIV.

For, far above her head, the prison-bars Mock her with narrow sections of that sky She knew so wide, and blue, and full of stars, When gazing upward through the branches highOf the free forest! Is she, then, to die? Where is he--where--the strong-armed and the brave, Who in that vision answered her wild cry? Where is he--where--the lover who should save And snatch her from her fate--an ignominious grave? XV.

Oh, pity her, all sinful though she be, While thus the transient dreams of freedom rise, Contrasted with her waking destiny! Scorn is for devils; soft compassion lies In angel-hearts, and beams from angel-eyes. Pity her! Never more, with wild embrace, Those flexile arms shall clasp him ere she dies; Never the fierce sad beauty of her face Be lit with gentler hope, or love's triumphant grace! XVI.

Lonely she perishes; like some wild bird That strains its wing against opposing wires; Her heart's tumultuous panting may be heard, While to the thought of rescue she aspires; Then, of its own deep strength, it faints and tires: The frenzy of her mood begins to cease; Her varying pulse with fluttering stroke expires, And the sick weariness that is not peace Creeps slowly through her blood, and promises release. XVII.

Alas, dark shadows, press not on her so! Stand off, and let her hear the linnet sing! Crumble, ye walls, that sunshine may come through Each crevice of your ruins! Rise, clear spring, Bubbling from hidden fountain-depths, and bring Water, the death-thirst of her pain to slake! Come from the forest, breeze with wandering wing! There, dwelt a heart would perish for her sake,-- Oh, save her! No! Death stands prepared his prey to take. XVIII.

But, because youth and health are very strong, And all her veins were full of freshest life, The deadly struggle must continue long Ere the free heart lie still, that was so rife With passion's mad excess. The gaoler's wife Bends, with revolted pity on her brow, To watch the working of that fearful strife, Till the last quivering spark is out. And now All's dark, all's cold, all's lost, that loved and mourned below. XIX.

She could not live in prison--could not breathe The dull pollution of its stagnant air,-- She, that at dewy morn was wont to wreathe The wild-briar roses, singing, in her hair,-- She died, heart-stifled, in that felon-lair! No penitence; no anchor that held fast To soothing meditation and meek prayer, But a wild struggle, even to the last-- In death-distorted woe her marble features cast! XX.

And none lament for her, save only him Who choking back proud thoughts and words irate, With tangled locks, and glances changed and dim, Bows low to one who keeps the prison-gate, Pleading to see her; asking of her fate; Which, when he learns, with fierce and bitter cries (Howling in savage grief for his young mate) He curseth all, and all alike defies;-- Despair and fury blent, forth flashing from worn eyes! XXI.

With vulgar terror struck, they deem him wild-- Fit only for the chains which madmen clank. But soon he weepeth, like a little child! And many a day, by many a sunny bank, Or forest-pond, close fringed with rushes dank, He wails, his clenched hands on his eyelids prest; Or by lone hedges, where the grass grows rank, Stretched prone, as travellers deem, in idle rest, Mourns for that murdered girl, the dove of his wild nest. XXII.

Little recks he, of Law and Law's constraint, Reared in ill-governed sense of Liberty! At times he bows his head, heart-stricken, faint; Anon--in strange delirious agony-- He dreams her yet in living jeopardy! His arm is raised,--his panting breast upheaves,-- Ah! what avails his youth's wild energy? What strength can lift the withering autumn leaves, Light as they drifting lie on her for whom he grieves! XXIII.

Her SPRING had ripened into Summer fruit; And, if that fruit was poison, whose the blame? Not hers, whose young defying lips are mute-- Though hers the agony, though hers the shame-- But theirs, the careless crowd, who went and came, And came and went again, and never thought How best such wandering spirits to reclaim; How earnest minds the base have trained and taught, As shaping tools vile forms have into beauty wrought. XXIV.

The land that lies a blank and barren waste We drain, we till, we sow, with cheerful hope: Plodding and patient, looking yet to taste Reward in harvest, willingly we cope With thorns that stay the plough on plain and slope, And nipping frosts, and summer heats that broil. Till all is done that lies within the scope Of man's invention, to improve that soil, Earnest we yet speed on, unceasing in our toil. XXV.

But for the SOUL that lieth unreclaimed, Choked with the growth of rankest weeds and tares, No man puts forth his hand, and none are blamed; Though plenteous harvest might repay his cares, Though he might 'welcome angels, unawares.' The earth he delves, and clears from every weed, But leaves the human heart to sinful snares; The earth he sows with costly, precious seed, But lets the human heart lie barren at its need. XXVI.

Once I beheld (and, to my latest hour, That sight unfaded in my heart I hold) A bright example of the mighty power One human mind, by earnest will controlled, Can wield o'er other minds--the base and bold, Steeped in low vice, and warped in conscious wrong; Or weaker wanderers from the Shepherd's fold, Who, sinning with averted faces, long To turn again to God, with psalm and angel-song. XXVII.

I saw one man, armed simply with God's Word, Enter the souls of many fellow-men, And pierce them sharply as a two-edged sword, While conscience echoed back his words again; Till, even as showers of fertilising rain Sink through the bosom of the valley clod, So their hearts opened to the wholesome pain, And hundreds knelt upon the flowery sod, One good man's earnest prayer the link 'twixt them and God. XXVIII.

That amphitheatre of awe-struck heads Is still before me: there the Mother bows, And o'er her slumbering infant meekly sheds Unusual tears. There, knitting his dark brows, The penitent blasphemer utters vows Of holy import. There, the kindly man, Whose one weak vice went near to bid him lose All he most valued when his life began, Abjures the evil course which erst he blindly ran. XXIX.

There, with pale eyelids heavily weighed down By a new sense of overcoming shame, A youthful Magdalen, whose arm is thrown Round a young sister who deserves no blame; (As though like innocence she now would claim, Absolved by a pure God!) And, near her, sighs The Father who refused to speak her name: Her penitence is written in her eyes-- Will he not, too, forgive, and bless her, ere she rise? XXX.

Renounce her not, grieved Father! Heaven shall make Room for her entrance with the undefiled. Upbraid her not, sad Mother! for the sake Of days when she was yet thy spotless child. Be gentle with her, oh, thou sister mild! And thou, good brother! though by shame opprest; For many a day, amid temptations wild, Madly indulged, and sinfully carest, She yearned to weep and die upon thy honest breast. XXXI.

Lost Innocence!--that sunrise of clear youth, Whose lovely light no morning can restore; When, robed in radiance of unsullied truth, Her soul no garment of concealment wore, But roamed its paradise of fancies o'er In perfect purity of thought--is past! But He who bid the guilty 'sin no more' A gleam of mercy round her feet shall cast, And guide the pilgrim back to heaven's 'strait Gate' at last. XXXII.

By that poor lost one, kneel a happier group, Children of sinners, christened free from sin; Smiling, their curled and shining heads they stoop, Awed, but yet fearless; confident to win Blessings of God; while early they begin (The Samuels of the Temple) thus to wait HIS audible voice, whose Presence they are in, And formally, from this auspicious date, Themselves, and their young lives, to HIM to dedicate. XXXIII.

While, mingling with those glad and careless brows, And ruddy cheeks, embrowned with honest toil; Kneels the pale artisan (who only knows Of Luxury--how best its glittering spoil, Midst whirring wheels, and dust, and heat, and oil, For richer men's enjoyment to prepare); And ill-fed labourers of a fertile soil, Whose drunkenness was Lethe to their care,-- All met, for one good hope, one blessing, and one prayer! XXXIV.

I will not cavil with the man who sneers At priestly labours, as the work of hell; I will not pause to contradict strange fears Of where the influence ends, begun so well; One only thought remained with me to dwell, For ever with remembrance of that scene, When I beheld hearts beat and bosoms swell, And that melodious voice and eye serene Govern the kneeling crowd, as he their God had been. XXXV.

I thought, in my own secret soul, if thus, (By the strong sympathy that knits mankind) A power untried exists in each of us, By which a fellow-creature's wavering mind To good or evil deeds may be inclined; Shall not an awful questioning be made, (And we, perchance, no fitting answer find!) 'Whom hast THOU sought to rescue, or persuade? Whom roused from sinful sloth? whom comforted, afraid?' XXXVI.

For whom employed,--e'en from thy useless birth,-- The buried Talent at thy Lord's command? Unprofitable servant of the earth! Though here men fawned on thee, and licked thy hand For golden wealth, and power, and tracts of land; When the Eternal Balance justly weighs, Above thee, in the ranks of heaven, shall stand, Some wretch obscure, who through unnoticed days, Taught a poor village school to sing their Maker's praise. XXXVII.

A mournful memory in my bosom stirs! A recollection of the lovely isle Where, in the purple shadow of thy firs Parkhurst! and gloomy in the summer smile, Stands the CHILD'S PRISON: (since we must defile So blest a refuge, with so curst a name) The home of those whose former home was vile; Who, dogged, sullen, scoffing, hither came, Tender in growth and years, but long confirmed in shame. XXVIII.

Alas! what inmates may inhabit there? Those to whose infant days a parent's roof, In lieu of a protection, was a snare; Those from whose minds instruction held aloof, No hope, no effort made in their behoof; Whose lips familiar were with blasphemy, And words obscene that mocked at all reproof, But never uttered prayer to the Most High, Or learned one gentle hymn, His name to glorify. XXXIX.

Th' Untaught, Uncared-for, 'neath whose stolid look The Scriptures might have lain, a block of wood, Hewn to the shape and semblance of a book, For any thing they knew in it of good, Or any text they heard or understood. THESE are your Prisoned Children! Germs of Men, Vicious, and false, and violent of mood, Such as strange carelessness first rears, and then Would crush the sting out by a death of pain! XL.

But skilful hands have drawn the arrow's barb From the unfestered wound which Time shall heal! And though 'tis mournful, in their prison garb, To see them trooping to their silent meal; And though, among them, many brows reveal Sorrow too bitter for such childish hearts; Yet the most pitiful (if just) must feel (E'en while the tear of forced compassion starts) That blessed is the hope their suffering imparts! XLI.

The Saved are there, who would have been the Lost; The Checked in crime, who might have been the Doomed; The wildbriar buds, whose tangled path was crost By nightshade poison trailing where they bloomed! The Wrecked, round whom the threatening surges boomed, Borne in this Life-boat far from peril's stress; The Sheltered, o'er whose heads the thunder loomed; Convicts (convicted of much helplessness Exiles, whom Mercy guides through guilt's dark wilderness. XLII.

I saw One sitting in that Island Prison Whose day in solitude was going down, E'en as in solitude its light had risen! His little savage sullen face, bent down, From all kind words, with an averted frown-- A world of dumb defiance in his scowl! Or, looking up, with gaze that seemed to own, 'I scorn the smiting of your forced control; My body scourge or slay, you shall not bend my soul!' XLIII.

But one was weeping--weeping bitter tears! Of softer mould his erring heart was made; And, when the sound of coming steps he hears Advancing to his lone cell's cheerless shade, He turns, half welcoming and half afraid, Trustful of pity, willing to be saved; Stepping half way to meet the proffered aid; Thankful for blessings kind and counsel grave; Strange to this new sad life, but patient, calm, and brave. XLIV.

Brave! for what courage must it not require In a child's heart, to bear those dreadful hours? Think how WE find the weary spirit tire, How the soul sinks with faint and flagging powers, Pent in, in these indulgent lives of ours, By one monotonous day of winter's rain! Woe for the prisoned boy, who sadly cowers, In his blank cell, for days of dreary pain, Pining for human looks and human tones in vain. XLV.

Nor let it be forgot, for these young spirits, (Although by gross and vulgar sin defiled,) How differently judged were their demerits, Were each a noble's or a gentle's child. Are there no sons at college, 'sadly wild?' No children, wayward, difficult to rear? Are THEY cast off by Love? No, gleaming mild Through the salt drops of many a bitter tear, The rainbow of your hope shines out of all your fear! XLVI.

For they are YOUNG, you say; and this green stem With shoots of good shall soon be grafted in: Meanwhile, how much is FROLIC, done by them, Which, in the poor, is punishable SIN? Nor mark I this, a useless sigh to win, (They lose their ground, who falsely, lightly chide,) But to note down how much your faith you pin Upon the worth of that, to them supplied-- Revealed Religion's light, and Education's guide. XLVII.

Yea, for yourselves and sons, ye trusted it, And knew no reed it was you leaned upon; Therefore, whoso denies that benefit To meaner men in ignorance chained down, From each this true reproach hath justly won:-- 'Oh, selfish heart! that owned the healing sure, Yet would not help to save MY erring son!' They cry to you, 'PREVENT!'--You cannot cure, The ills that, once incurred, these little ones endure! XLVIII.

The criminal is in the felon's dock: Fearful and stupified behold him stand! While to his trial cold spectators flock, And lawyers grave, and judges of the land. At first he grasps the rail with nervous hand, Hearing the case which learnedly they state, With what attention ignorance can command: Then, weary of such arguing of his fate, Torpid and dull he sinks, throughout the long debate. XLIX.

Vapid, incomprehensible to him The skilful pleader's cross-examining wit; His sullen ear receives, confused and dim, The shouts of laughter at some brilliant hit, When a shrewd witness leaves the Biter bit. He shrinks not while the facts that must prevail Against his life, unconscious friends admit; Though Death is trembling in the adverse scale, He recks no more than if he heard the autumn gale. L.

Oh, Eloquence, a moving thing art thou! Tradition tells us many a mournful story Of scaffold-sentenced men, with noble brow, Condemned to die in youth, or weak and hoary, Whose words survived in long-remembered glory! But eloquence of words the power hath not (Nor even their fate, who perished gaunt and gory) To move my spirit like his abject lot, Who stands there, like a dog, new-sentenced to be shot! LI.

Look, now! Attention wakes, with sudden start, The brutish mind which late so dull hath been! Quick grows the heavy beating at his heart! The solemn pause which rests the busy scene, He knows, though ignorant, what that must mean-- The Verdict! With the Jury rests his chance! And his lack-lustre eye grows strangely keen, Watching with wistful, pleading, dreadful glance, Their consultation cease, their foreman slow advance. LII.

His home, his hopes, his life, are in that word! His ties! (for think ye not that he hath ties?) Alas! Affection makes its pleading heard Long after better sense of duty dies, Midst all that Vice can do to brutalise. Hark to the verdict--'Guilty!'--All are foes! Oh, what a sight for good, compassionate eyes, That haggard man; as, stupified with woes, Forth from the felon's dock, a wretch condemned he goes! LIII.

A wretch condemned, but not at heart subdued. Rebellious, reckless, are the thoughts which come Intruding on his sentenced solitude:-- Savage defiance! gnawing thoughts of home! Plots to escape even now his threatened doom! Sense of desertion, persecution!--allChoke up the fount of grief, and bid the foam Stand on his gnashing lips when tears should fall, And mock the exhorting tones which for repentance call! LIV.

For if one half the pity and the pains, The charity, and visiting, and talk, Had been bestowed upon that wretch in chains, While he had yet a better path to walk, Life's flower might still have bloomed upon its stalk! He might not now stand there, condemned for crime, (Helpless the horror of his fate to balk!) Nor heard the sullen bell, with funeral chime, Summon him harshly forth, to die before his time! LV.

CHILD OF THE ISLANDS! thou, whose cradle-bed Was hallowed still with night and morning prayer! Thou, whose first thoughts were reverently led To heaven, and taught betimes to anchor there! Thou, who wert reared with fond peculiar care, In happiest leisure, and in holiest light! Wilt THOU not feed the lamp whose lustre rare Can break the darkness of this fearful night, Midst dim bewild'ring paths to guide faint steps aright? LVI.

Wilt thou not help to educate the poor? They will learn something, whether taught or no; The Mind's low dwelling hath an open door, Whence, wandering still uneasy, to and fro, It gathers that it should, or should not, know. Oh, train the fluttering of that restless wing! Guide the intelligence that worketh woe! So shall the Summer answer to the Spring, And a well-guided youth an age of duty bring. LVII.

Thus,--freed from the oppressive pang which chokes A young warm heart that pities men in vain,-- Thou'lt roam beneath thy Windsor's spreading oaks, And see Life's course before thee, clear and plain, And how to spare, and how to conquer, pain: Or, greeting fair Etona's merry groups, Thou'lt think, not only for this noble train, The dovelike wing of Science brooding stoops, But shadows many a head that else obscurely droops! LVIII.

Or Thought, in her strange chaos, shall display That proudest sight reserved for English eyes-- The building ship--which soon shall cleave its way Through the blue waters, 'neath the open skies. The stately oak is felled, and low it lies, Denuded of its lovely branches--bare Of e'en the bark that wrapped its giant size Roughly defying all the storms of air, One fragment of its gnarled and knotted strength to tear. LXI.

Out of its swelling girth are aptly hewn The timbers fitted for the massive frame; By perfect rule and measurement foreshewn, Plank after plank, each answering to the same, The work goes on--a thing without a name-- Huge as a house, and heavy as a rock, Enough the boldest looker-on to tame, Standing up-gazing at that monstrous block, Whose grand proportions seem his narrow sense to mock. LXII.

And ceaseless, hammering, shouting, pigmy forms Work, crawl, and clatter on her bulging sides: Are those the beings, who, in Heaven's wild storms, Shall move that mass against opposing tides? One, tread her decks, with proud impetuous strides? Others, through yawning port-holes point the gun,-- Scattering the foe her glorious strength derides, And shouting 'Victory' for a sea-fight won? Oh, magic rule of MIND, by which such works are done! LXIII.

Now give her MASTS and SAILS!--those spreading wings Whose power shall save from many a dangerous coast! Her ROPES, with all their bolts, and blocks, and rings; Her glorious FLAG, no foe shall dare to brave Who sees it come careering o'er the wave! Give her, the HEARTS of OAK, who, marshalled all, Within her creaking ribs when tempests rave And the fierce billows beat that echoing walls Fearless and calm obey the Boatswain's mustering call. LXV.

Give her, those giant ANCHORS, whose deep plunge Into the startled bosom of the Sea, Shall give the eager sailor leave to lounge In port awhile, with reckless liberty. Soon shall his changeful heart impatiently, For their unmooring and upheaving long; For 'Sailing-orders' which shall set him free; While his old messmates, linked in brawny throng, Coil up the Cable's length--huge, intricate, and strong!) LXVI.

Give her, her CAPTAIN! who, from that day forth, With her loved beauty all his speech shall fill; And all her wanderings, East, West, South, and North, Narrate,--with various chance of good and ill,-- As though she lived, and acted of free will. Yet, let no lip with mocking smile be curled ;-- These are the souls, that man with dauntless skill, Our Wooden Walls; whose Meteor-flag, unfurled, Bids England 'hold her own' against th' united world! LXVII.

Dear Island-Home!--and is the boast so strange Which bids thee claim the Empire of the Sea? O'er the blue waters as we fearless range, Seem not the waves familiar friends to be? We knew them in the Country of the Free! And now they follow us with playful race, Back rolling to that land of liberty, And dashing round her rocks with rough embrace, Like an old shaggy dog that licks its Master's face. LXVIII.

Yea, and a Watch-dog too, if there be need! A low determined growl, when danger lowers, Shall, from the gloomy port-holes, grimly speed, To rouse our Heroes, and our armed Powers. Let the land-circled nations keep their towers, Their well-scanned passports, and their guards secure,-- We'll trust this floating, changeful wall of ours, And, long as ocean-waves and rocks endure, So long, dear Island-Home, we'll hold thy freedom sure! LXIX.

Back to our ship! She breasts the surging tide; The fair breeze freshens in the flowing sheet! With deafening cheers the landsmen see her glide, And hearts, that watch her progress, wildly beat. Oh! where and when shall all the many meet, Who part to-day? That secret none may sound! But slowly falls the tread of homeward feet; And, in the evening, with a sigh goes round, That brief, but thrilling toast, 'Health to the Outward-Bound!' LXX.

Health to the Outward-Bound! How many go Whose homeward voyage never shall be made! Who but that drear Sea-Burial shall know, Which bids the corse the shifting flood invade! No grave--no stone beneath the cypress-shade, Where mourning friends may gather round and weep, Whose distant wretchedness is yet delayed: Orphans at home a jubilee may keep, While Messmates' hands commit a Father to the deep! LXXI.

Some, whom the cry of 'FIRE!' doth overtake On the wide desert of the lonely seas, Their vague escape in open boats shall make; To suffer quenchless thirst, and parched disease, And hunger-pangs the DEATH-LOT shall appease. Some, crashing wrecked in one stupendous shock, Endure more helpless rapid fate than these, And vainly clinging to the foam-washed block, Die, drifted like weak weeds from off the slippery rock. LXXII.

Some, scarcely parted twice a cable's length From those who on the firm earth safely stand, Shall madly watch the strained united strength And cheers and wavings of the gallant band, Who launch their life-boat with determined hand. Ah! none shall live, that zealous aid to thank; The wild surge whirls the life-boat back to land,-- The hazy distance suddenly grows blank,-- In that last labouring plunge the fated vessel sank! LXXIII.

And some shall plough their homeward track in vain, Dying, it may be, within sight of shore: While others, (dreariest horror of the main!) Are vaguely 'lost' and never heard of more. Ah, me! how many now such fate deplore, As hisfor whom Grief's wild and piercing cry Followed, e'er yet lamenting tears were o'er, Shed for his brother; doomed, like him, to die In youth,--but not like him without one kinsman nigh! LXXIV.

Peace to thy woeful heart, thou grey-haired sire; Each, had he lived, his duty would have done: Towards gallant deeds unwearied to aspire, Was thine own heritage to either son. Yet thou hast wept,--like him whose race is run,-- Who rose a happy Father when the day Through morning clouds, with misty radiance shone; But when at eve his ship got under way, Left his unburied son in wild Algoa Bay! LXXV.

His generous son, who risked his own young life Hoping another from that doom to save; And battled nobly with the water's strife, E'er the green billows were his floating grave. Nor died alone, beneath the whelming wave; Others,--less known perhaps,--not cherished less By those who for their presence vainly crave,-- Sank struggling down in utter weariness, Lost in that wild dark night of terrible distress. LXXVI.

Oh, hearts have perished, neither faint nor few, Whose names have left no echo save at home; With many a gallant ship, whose fearless crew Set sail with cheerful hope their course to roam! Buried 'neath many a fathom's shifting foam,-- By the rude rocks of many a distant shore,-- Their visionary smiles at midnight come To those whose waking eyes their loss deplore,-- Dreaming of their return, who shall return no more! LXXVII.

CHILD OF THE ISLANDS! some such saddening tales, Thou, in thine infancy, perchance shalt hear; Linked with the names a Nation still bewails, And warrior-deeds to England's glory dear. Ah! let them not fall lightly on thine ear! Though Death calmed down that anguish, long ago, The record is not ended; year by year Recurring instances of loss and woe Shall bid thee, for like grief, a like compassion show! LXXVIII.

Neglect not, Thou, the sons of men who bled To do good service in the former time; Slight not some veteran father of the Dead, Whose noble boys have perished in their prime. Accept not selfishly, the love sublime And loyalty which in such souls hath burned. What though it be thy right; the lack, a crime? Yet should no honest heart by thine be spurned-- True service paid with smiles, and thanks, is cheaply earned. LXXIX.

Keep Thou the reverence of a youthful heart To Age and Merit in thy native land; Nor deem CONDITION sets thee far apart: ABOVE, but not ALOOF, a Prince should stand: Still near enough, to stretch the friendly hand To those whose names had never reached the throne, But for great deeds, performed in small command: Since thus the gallant wearers first were known, Hallow those names; although not Royal like thine own. LXXX.

And let thy Smile be like the Summer Sun, Whose radiance is not kept for garden-flowers, But sends its genial beams to rest upon The meanest blushing bud in way-side bowers. Earth's Principalities, and Thrones, and Powers, If Heaven's true Delegates on Earth they be, Should copy Heaven; which giveth fertile Showers, The Dew, the Warmth, the Balm, the Breezes free, Not to one Class alone,--but all Humanity!

Rus' You Are But A Kiss In The Frost

Rus', you are but a kiss in the frost!The midnight roads are blueing.Lips joined in a blue lightning bolt,Clasped, he and she are blueing.Sometimes at night lightning would sparkFrom the caress of two mouths.And a bluing, languished lightning boltWould swiftly outline two coats.And the night would shine intelligent and dark.

There Are Only Eyes Appearing Above The Surface

There are only eyes appearing above the surfacein the brown water of the river's poolbefore they again disappear without a trace.There are only eyes appearing above the surfacewhen it notices a prey, are covered by the water-curtainwhere the crocodile hides in the depths of the river, there are only eyes appearing above the surfacein the brown water of the river's pool.